Some say the word Blissett is of Slavonic origin, and try to
account for it on that basis. Others again believe it to be of
German origin, only influenced by Slavonic. The uncertainty of
both interpretations allows one to assume with justice that neither
is accurate, especially as neither of them provides an intelligent
meaning of the word.

No one, of course, would occupy himself with such studies if
there were not a creature called Blissett. At first glance it
looks like a flat star-shaped spool for thread, and indeed it
does seem to have thread wound upon it; to be sure, they are only
old, broken-off bits of thread, knotted and tangled together,
of the most varied sorts and colors. But it is not only a spool,
for a small wooden crossbar sticks out of the middle of the star,
and another small rod is joined to that at a right angle. By means
of this latter rod on one side and one of the points of the star
on the other, the whole thing can stand upright as if on two legs.

One is tempted to believe that the creature once had some sort
of intelligible shape and is now only a broken-down remnant. Yet
this does not seem to be the case; at least there is no sign of
it; nowhere is there an unfinished or unbroken surface to suggest
anything of the kind; the whole thing looks senseless enough,
but in its own way perfectly finished. In any case, closer scrutiny
is impossible, since Blissett is extraordinarily nimble and can
never be laid hold of.

He lurks by turns in the garret, the stairway, the lobbies,
the entrance hall. Often for months on end he is not to be seen;
then he has presumably moved into other houses; but he always
comes faithfully back to our house again. Many a time when you
go out of the door and he happens just to be leaning directly
beneath you against the banisters you feel inclined to speak to
him. Of course, you put no difficult questions to him, you treat
him - he is so diminutive that you cannot help it - rather like
a child. "Well, what's your name?" you ask him. "Luther
Blissett," he says. "And where do you live?" "No
fixed abode," he says and laughs; but it is only the kind
of laughter that has no lungs behind it. It sounds rather like
the rustling of fallen leaves. And that is usually the end of
the conversation. Even these anwers are not always forthcoming;
often he stays mute for a long time, as wooden as his appearance.

I ask myself, to no purpose, what is likely to happen to him?
Can he possibly die? Anything that dies has had some kind of aim
in life, some kind of activity, which has worn out; but that does
not apply to Blissett. Am I to suppose, then, that he will always
be rolling down the stairs, with ends of thread trailing after
him, right before the feet of my children, and my children's children?
He does no harm to anyone that one can see; but the idea that
he is likely to survive me I find almost painful.